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memories are not part of the game. In certain ways yesterday was of no real consequence, a harmless childhood recall, nothing more. I was running through the dry leaves of autumn. In the memory the colours of the leaves are as they are today, beautiful shades of orange, red and yellow, a spectacular flight falling from lines of trees. As a child I was amazed by their falling, creating a sea of crunch and colour that I could almost glide through. It was just a silly memory, but it had made me smile, and I had not expected that.
    Now when I look at the trees, I think about how they have the strength to survive the harshest of winters, the short days and the long nights, and how, unlike me, they will be reborn again. Could I be like the trees? Could I, after such a long, cold winter, re-form again? Is it the question that unsettles me or the fact that I have thought of it at all? For the thinking of it makes me wonder if I might once again fall victim to that thing I’ve long since given up on: hope.
    This afternoon, if Dr Ebbs asks me about the fire, I will let hisquestions fall away like the leaves are doing now. I will say I don’t remember; he cannot make me talk. The sooner he realises how empty I am, that he is wasting his time and mine, the better it will be for everyone. Then I can go back to just being my old self. It is easier that way. It is what I do best.
    As I walk down towards Living Room 1, I pay a visit to the Female Toilets. In here, the tiles are a lighter powder pink and cover the walls and floors. The tiles on the floor are different from the ones on the wall, they are larger and less shiny. In the Female Toilets, there are four cubicles. I can tell Bridget has already been in because each one smells of cleaning fluid and every toilet roll holder is full. The others have already made their way down to breakfast.
    I savour my final minutes alone, collecting my thoughts. Breakfast is the worst chore of the day because at breakfast, I will meet everyone for the first time all over again – and, today, I feel nervous. I worry that I might not be able to hide my feelings the way I usually do. The silent, polite exterior of my protective shell feels less sure. Whether it is because of the good doctor or the memory of the fallen leaves, I do not know, but I have the sense that today, despite my desire to remain steadfast, my protection might slip.

The Quays, Dublin
Friday, 7 October 2011, 1.00 p.m.
    WALKING OUT OF HER OFFICE AT OCEAN HOUSE ON Arran Quay, Kate Pearson planned to grab some lunch at the Legal Eagle pub nearby, before picking up Charlie from school straight afterwards. It was still hard to think of him being in ‘big school’, but as her mother had said to her at his birth, four years earlier, time flies quicker than anyone can possibly imagine. Out in the fresh air, the last person she expected to see leaning against the Liffey wall opposite was DI O’Connor. He was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped around to avoid the breeze. Tall and bulky, he was a man who’d have looked more at home in a traditional pub, with his short auburn hair and curls to the front that never knew which way they wanted to settle. As always, his beard stubble was only a hair’s-breadth from looking unruly. He had shared very little with her about his personal life during the Dunmore case, other than his confirmed bachelor status and what seemed like an avoidance to reveal his first name. Crossing over as soon as he saw her, his blue eyes smiled in that cheeky way of his.
    ‘Those things will kill you, O’Connor,’ she said lightly.
    He grinned at her. ‘Sure, something has to, Kate, might as well be something enjoyable.’
    ‘Stalking me now, are you?’
    ‘Now, now, less of the ego, it doesn’t suit you.’
    ‘Is the pleasure mine or someone else’s?’
    ‘It’s your lucky day. Tried to get you on your mobile. I had to ring Probation and Welfare to find you.’
    ‘Consultations all morning, mobile